"Don’t fry your clams, kid, there’s dirty money
involved and that’s that.” Detective Vic Fleming mumbled as he paused to
chew the half slice of pizza that had discouraged his best efforts to
swallow in its entirety.

“You
don’t think Boyd was involved in…” Johnny started to say.

“Castanet
skimming some skell? Nah, Robin frickin Hood should’ a shot arrows as
straight as Boyd. I just see you busting your own horns here looking for
something that ain’t there. Not to be insensitive to the fact that you
lost your partner, but you been on the job long enough to know why people
turn up dead like that.”

“Who the
frig knows why they do anything? Find a way to get inside some thievin’
skells head and you get rich hobnobbin’ with the Feds as a smart-ass
consultant. That tattoo place hadda be a front for some serious cash, it’s
the Village for chrissake and that means dope money or something just as
dirty. Boyd was at the wrong place at the wrong time and who knows if
maybe some big shot is connected with the deal and thinks that Boyd got
enough of an eyeball to jack him up. Nobody with the balls to cap a cop
these days unless it’s some rich dick, anyway. He sends some strung out
mope to make sure Boyd don’t tell nobody, and all hell breaks loose. No
boogeymen, Johnny, okay? And the sooner you realize that, the sooner you
concentrate on the real deal.”

Johnny
Hamilton knew that Fleming was right. That the mysterious goings on
connected with his partner’s disappearance were nothing more than life in
the big city, and hey, stranger things had happened in the Apple. But it
had been over a week since he broke into Boyd’s bloodstained apartment,
and none of the usual suspects had surfaced to make finding out what
really happened any easier. The place was trashed, and nothing was stolen,
except they couldn’t find Boyd’s harmonica, but nobody waltzes into a cops
crib and Ruby-Ridge’s the place just to snatch a mouth
whistle.

“I’m
taking off.” Johnny said to Vic as his eye caught the clock on the wall
and saw that it was nearly 7 PM. “Mags will have my ass if I miss one more
dinner.”

“Sure
kid.” Fleming mumbled around yet another heroic mouthful of pizza. “You go
make nice with the girly and leave the overtime to us married guys. Not to
be insensitive, but extra cash like this don’t come along that much no
more, and I’m milkin this cow till she bleeds. Frigs wont let a man eat,
catch that will ya?” The portly Detective nodded in the direction of a
suddenly ringing phone.

“Dead
line. Like nobody was ever even on it.” Johnny answered as he slammed the
handset into the receiver.

“Kids.
Kids or those wiseasses at One PP timing us to see how long we take to
answer. Get us a frickin unlisted number I say, but nobody listens to
me.”

“Third
time today, Vic. When was the last time you remember that
happening?”

“There
you go again. Frig, I swear you’re gonna give me agida here. Now get your
ass home before that nice girl goes and finds herself a fireman to bump
uglies with. Now that’d be a sin, a real…”

Johnny
let out a heavy sigh as he walked past the still munching Fleming, and
trotted down the stairs leading to the entrance to the 13 Precinct. Maggie
was making lasagna so he’d better pick up a decent bottle of Dago-red, and
maybe some flowers from one of the shops by the subway. He said goodnight
to the desk sergeant and the humid air of the early July evening wrapped
itself around him like a sodden hot towel as he turned his thoughts on
autopilot to walk the two blocks to the train.

No body.
Lots of blood. Boyd gets off three shots. No blood but his, so he misses?
Ex-Marine, still shot good scores at the range, so how come he can’t hit
somebody right next to him? Drugs involved…maybe. Then why didn’t the perp
take the cash from the register? Johnny’s thoughts are jolted out of the
way as he catches sight of a banner, a sign waving lazily in the wet warm
breeze over a store that hadn’t been there when he passed by this
morning.

PAWN.
SELL. BUY.

The
storefront is barely ten feet wide, the plate glass window taking up
nearly all of the frontage save for a space for a narrow door. Behind the
window were the usual knickknacks of the pawn trade; music boxes, costume
jewelry, a small television, a boom box, some books,
and…

Johnny
barely noticed the YES, WE’RE OPEN sign as he pushed through the door, and
his eyes adjust to the semi-darkness quickly enough to see an elderly man
atop a ladder placing something on a high shelf.

“See
something you like?” The stooped and silver haired proprietor said with a
merchant’s smile as he slowly descended.

“Yeah, in
the window. Say, how long you been open for business? I mean, wasn’t this
all boarded up this morning?”

“Matter
of fact, it was, sir. I’ve been working inside for weeks now to get the
place ready for customers and just this afternoon had the workmen take
down the timber. The name’s Grapewin, Charlie Grapewin. Something in the
window, you say?”

“Yeah,
that harmonica. Could I take a look at it?”

“Why of
course you may. Not many young people take a liking to the harmonica, not
these days. Just give me a moment and I’ll fetch it out for
you.”

Johnny
focused on slowing his breathing, a coincidence, nothing more than a
coincidence. And something about the store, it looked…bigger, lots bigger
inside than out. Funny how perspective can play tricks on the eyes. High
ceilings so it must be an old store, and the light fixtures looked to
predate the coming of electricity…

“Here we
are. A MerryNote 3, and in remarkable condition, young man.
Sanitized to a fair thee well, of course, everything I receive of this
sort is completely…”

“Where’d
you get it? Johnny blurted, then hesitated as he saw a look of reproach
upon the old mans face from such lack of decorum.

“Really
now sir, the pawn clientele cherishes its anonymity as dearly as a
churchman guards the whispers from the confessional. I will tell
you that it was not stolen, and is in perfect working
order.”

“Look,
Mr….Grapewin, I’m a cop.” Johnny continued, opening his jacket to display
the gold shield attached to the front of his belt. “I’m sorry if I barged
in here like a bull in a china shop but a friend of mine lost a harmonica
just like that, and I’d kind of like to know who left this
here.”

“Ah,
another constable and this one looks to purchase rather than sell. Bodes
well for an auspicious opening day, I’d say. Since you stand before me
with the look of an official inquiry about you, I’ll admit that I acquired
the MerryNote from one of your brother officers. The paint on the
sign wasn’t even dry when a middle-aged plainclothed policeman dropped the
harmonica off and asked if it would be possible to place it in my
window.”

“Another
cop?” Johnny asked. “When was this, what did he look
like?”

“Around
half past three this afternoon, if I recall. He was a dark haired
gentleman, perhaps as tall as yourself, but a trifle more…haberdashered,
if you will.”

“Dark,
middle-aged guy in a good suit? Did he leave a name? An address. Phone
number…”

“No,
sorry Detective but I have no specifics regarding the whereabouts of the
gentleman in question. Not a matter of good business practice, this I
grant you, but he was after all a policeman and said that he’d keep an eye
on the window to see if the piece was sold. I took it on consignment
actually, and we never discussed the specific
pricing…”

“Okay Mr.
Grapewin, look, I’m going to have to take this back to the…” Johnny
interrupted, and then paused as he looked closely at the chromed harmonica
in his hand. He’d seen Boyd fool with the thing often enough, and was
certain that this was his missing partner’s property. But something, some
indescribable feeling, or premonition washed over him and bade him to
leave official channels out of this discovery.

“How
much?” He asked the patient proprietor.

“How much
do feel it is worth to you?”

“Okay, I
don’t have a lot of cash on me, but if you’ll take a check or credit
card…how much is it worth to me? Look, Mr. Grapewin, I wanna buy this so
how much is it going to set me back?”

“Take
it.”

“Huh?
Take it…just like that?”

“I’m of
the feeling that your friend wanted you to have it, Detective. Why don’t
you take it with you and I can settle up with him.”

This is
crazy, Johnny thought. It couldn’t really be Boyd’s harmonica, and even it
was, why did some cop, who just happened to fit Boyd’s description no
less, drop it off at a pawnshop? None of it made sense. Nothing involved
with the case made sense. Boyd had always tried to warn him about life in
the 13th, but Johnny had taken his friend’s advice as an older
guy trying to spook a new partner.

“Take it,
Johnny.” Grapewin repeated. “There’s a good lad, just put it in your
pocket and get yourself home to that girlfriend before she disposes of
your dinner and leaves you hungry.”

“And
don’t forget the wine.”

**

The Third
Street docks, once a bustling center of WWII commerce, had fallen into
disrepair and was for the most part abandoned by the law abiding seafaring
tradesmen. The insiders joke among the local police was that the docks
were a bump-em and dump-em site for the unwanted refuse the mob and other
underworld types needed to dispose of.

“They’re
at it again, Harry.” Mrs. Florence Ryerson called to her husband as she
peeked through the blinds from their 6th floor apartment that
overlooked the water.

“Good for
them, Flo.” Harry answered aloud, adding under his breath, “I should be so
lucky.”

“Harry
what if it has something to do with that poor missing girl? Maybe you
should come look.” Flo responded as she furiously adjusted her binoculars.

The small
rowboat that had the attention of Mrs. Ryerson stopped as it reached the
deepest section of the inlet that fed into the East River, and a shadowy
figure began tossing obviously heavy plastic bags into the
water.

“I bet
it’s her, Harry! Oh my God, a man in a rowboat is throwing his trash in
the river, that’s disgusting, Harry.”

“Yeah,
call the cops. Maybe they’ll take a battleship out of mothballs and sink
the rowboat.” Harry mumbled before adding in a louder voice, “They dredge
the inlet once a month Flo and they ain’t calling the Marines over a guy
and the paper plates from his barbeque.”

**

A tired
Detective Fleming stopped at the Duty Sergeant’s desk and
stretched.

“Long
day, Vic?” Sergeant Langley asked.

“Yeah,
but no bitch from me, Noel. Christmas Club is gonna be so fat maybe Milly
remembers we’re married, even. Got anything hot for
me?”

“Usual
looneytoons. Old lady Ryerson over on 3rd thinks she’s found
where they dumped Jimmy Hoffa, and oh yeah, who’s partnering up with
Johnny Hamilton lately?”

“Nobody
yet. The Lieutenant wants to let kid to grieve a little so he’s still
solo, why?”

“Well
somebody better check on his ass cause he left a message a few hours ago
and Cochran says he sounded all spacey. Wanted an address checked out,
supposedly some new Pawn Shop just a few blocks from
here.”

“Guy lost
his partner, Sarge, we all need to cut him some slack,
okay?”

“Slack
sure, but he calls the desk and leaves a bogus address, Vic. Ain’t no Pawn
Shop around, friggin place been boarded up almost a year now. The old
Henderson Hardware joint, remember? Where that whack-job Henderson hung
himself and the rope broke so he laid there three days with a broken
hip?”

“Yeah,
that was some mess. Johnny passes the place at least twice a day from the
subway ride…ain’t like him to frig that address…”

“Listen,
it ain’t going in the Daily, okay, I just wanted you to know that
somebody’s got to snap this kid out of his
daydreaming.”

“Too late
to call him now.” Fleming said as he glanced at his watch. “How’s about I
promise to talk to him after I get some sleep? And Noel, gimme old lady
Ryerson’s address.”

“You
frickin OT hound.” Sergeant Langley chuckled. “Okay, you promise to talk
to the kid and I write it up like I asked you to check out the Ryerson’s
complaint. Deal?”

Christmas
was five months away but Milly’s birthday was just around the corner, and
with precious little loving going on in the Fleming household Vic would
have agreed to check out a rumor that Batman was spotted selling crack in
Thompson Square Park.

“Sweet.
I’ll swing by the Ryerson’s and then head home. Figure it’ll take me maybe
three hours all told and…don’t look at me like that Noel, I promise to
talk to the kid, okay…

**

“They
weren’t even weighted down. I mean, who dumps bodyparts in the East River
and don’t throw in a rock or two?” The technician from the Crime Scene
Investigations detail said to the wet-suited diver who sat enjoying a
cigarette after his brief swim to retrieve the floating black plastic
garbage bags.

“Somebody
either wanted them found or didn’t know there’s no more undertow.” The
diver responded as he flipped the butt of his cigarette into the water.
“My grandfather worked these waters on a tug during the War, and according
to him you couldn’t throw a peanut shell in without it sinking like a
stone. That’s way back before they flattened out the bottom and all so’s
the weekend rich pricks in their fishing boats didn’t get seasick from a
little wave or two.”

“Great,
Tommy, I’ll be sure to put in my report that Homicide keep an eye out for
some rampaging seniors. Hey, where’d Fleming go…he still
sick?”

“EMS guys
got him in the ambulance under some oxygen, but who knows. Fat frig was
tossing pizza chunks to beat the band.”